Still and Silent
by Arsenic Kisses
Summary: Sherlock and John talk after the Pool. SherlockxJohn.


A/N: This is a one shot I had to write. It came to me one day and I just had to. Thanks to my buddy, Writebetwixt for editing this for me. I make _incredibly _stupid grammar mistakes XD

Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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There was a chill about the room, something that could not be immediately regulated. In buildings of this size, it would take a good deal of time to abate any chill an occupant might incur with a tip of the thermostat. Sherlock observed several things had occurred within the room in the last two hours. A nurse with a particular need to organize had drawn two vials of blood, administered fluids (along with a standard hospital dinner) and had meticulously satisfied her OCD by rearranging the cards on the nightstand. Harry had already come and gone, her Dior perfume (intermingling with the crisp scent of chardonnay) still lingered within the fibers of the visitor's chair. She had also left a bouquet, (three days old, improperly cared for) which had been purchased at the hospital gift shop as it closed an hour ago. Sherlock plucked a dried petal from a bloom that appeared to be particularly despondent and took in its aroma. It was a common breed, but the smell was not unpleasant.

Turning on his heel, he let his keen eye taken in the wafting blinds, bathroom door (ajar at twenty-five degrees), and patient before returning his attentions to the cards. There were three in total, one from Harriet, one from Clara, and one from Mrs. Hudson that was taped to a box of biscuits.

Harry's card, including the pre-printed message, read:

Dear John,

May your illness pass as quickly as it has come. Get well soon!

-Love, Harry

Hospital gift shops rarely sold cards for ailments with permanence. It was (obviously) to inspire hope for the loved ones that must watch their patients suffer. Sherlock set it down and moved on to Clara's. Hers must have come from a set she had purchased a few years ago, as it smelled of slight age and two types of perfume. The card, with a sparrow and pink carnations on the front, came without a printed inscription. Her handwriting implied a confident woman with a penchant for trying to please everyone.

Dearest John,

Harry told me of your accident. I am so sorry to hear of it and hope that you will up on your feet soon. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Ever since that scare in Afghanistan, Harry worries. And I worry too, John. Get well soon.

Sincerely,

Clara

General (possibly genuine) concern for her ex-brother-in-law, Sherlock was certain that this behavior was usual for someone like Clara. She was deeply wronged by John's sister, and by all rights should not give a jot about him. This perplexed Sherlock slightly, her unusual behavior, so much so that he did not notice John. He did not notice him struggle to open the eye that was all but swollen shut. But, out of his other eye, he watched Sherlock in the gloom as he read Mrs. Hudson's card.

Hello Dear!

I hope this finds you well and you will be well soon, I don't think Sherlock will admit it, but I believe he misses you, dear. Come home soon, and enjoy the sweets!

With Love,

Mrs. Hudson

Sherlock placed the box down, uninterested in whatever the contents were. He shook his head at Mrs. Hudson's presumptions, eyes narrowed at the box. John watched silently as Sherlock let his head drop back and let out a gentle sigh. John could always tell when Sherlock was thinking. Yet, he could never really get a clear idea of what just by looking. It was quite the challenge to follow Sherlock Holmes, but John thought he made a good job of it. Sherlock ceased in his efforts to beat the ceiling in a staring contest and glanced at John.

Their eyes met and thousands of words passed between them in seconds. Nothing was said physically for a good long while. Then Sherlock took the visitor's chair and placed it right up against the bed before taking up seat there.

"John." Sherlock intoned.

"Hullo…" John whispered, smiling that puppy dog smile.

"Can you read my lips easily?" John paused a moment, furrowing his brow and squinting his eyes. Sherlock was rather fond of his forehead wrinkles, but it wasn't a conscious fondness. Any fondness he had would have been rather difficult to recognize within him. John reached up and turned on the harsh, overhead light and motioned for Sherlock to repeat. As he did, he analyzed the cuts and bruises on John's face. The deepest laceration from the debris was actually across John's lateral muscles ( his resistance to motion whilst lying down practically shouted at Sherlock from under the bandages and bed clothes.)

When things exploded at the pool, John had shoved Sherlock into the water, shielding him from the brunt of the blast. In exchange, he received nerve damage to the ears in tandem with the physical battery. The damage to the left was far worse than the right, according to his medical chart (courtesy of one Mycroft Holmes)

"It's a touch difficult?... I'll learn." Sherlock noted his hesitance to speak, of which he held a lack of surprise. Such behaviors are expected for someone who's gone through what John has.

"Will they be testing your hearing again soon?" There was another moment in which John's brain tried to translate Sherlock's lips into something comprehensible. John turned his right ear towards Sherlock, favoring the results after Sherlock's second repetition.

"They should be testing it again soon, yeah."

"Good." hummed the bass of Sherlock's voice. He paused a moment as John smiled hesitantly at him. "John."

"Yes?"

Sherlock paused a moment, contemplating. Drawing from his pocket a small steno pad (lifted from Lestrade) and a pen ( also lifted, separate occasion), he scribbled down a bit of text. He looked at it for a moment, wrote something more, the folded it in half. He set it on the table next to the other cards.

"Don't open it until I leave." John nodded, his eyes weary. Sherlock bid him a good night then, telling him he'd come back again sometime the next day. John watched him go, a part of him wanting to get up and follow. He was done with hospitals. He'd seen far too many in his life and was tired of being on the receiving end of care. John looked to the door, wanting his friend to return. He detested loneliness and, frankly, had grown accustomed to Sherlock's company. As insane as he was, he was also bloody brilliant. And John was addicted to that brilliance.

John picked up the improvised card and opened it.

Don't lose heart, John.

-SH

John laughed, very much the same laugh he'd had the night they'd run from the police after running after the cab. John remembered Sherlock's laugh. Rather than despairing, which in John's mind would be the easiest thing to do in his situation, he smiled. He would not let himself forget it. And tomorrow, when they came to check his ear and recommend hearing aids, he would remember the card, that laugh and concede. He would graciously accept them, and not lose heart.

Because what is a detective without his blogger?

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Thank you for reading!

Sincerely,

Arsenic.


End file.
